


Faces in the Night

by Starkidjordan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky is out of cryo, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starkidjordan/pseuds/Starkidjordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s blonde, and beautiful, and familiar- his eyes– Bucky’s seen them, he knows them, but he feels his metal arm realign, and suddenly he’s on top of him– Steve– and bringing his hand down onto his beautiful face for the final blow– he knows this one will kill. He shouts, he screams, he begs, but they make him, they make him bring his fist down and then it’s done, and he– Steve– is gone and he is left gripping the body but they drag him away they take the body they take the memory they take–</p>
<p>Bucky wakes with a start, and his panicked shout bounces off the walls of his room. It’s the middle of the night and he is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faces in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my lovely friend Lauren. Thanks for the prompt, I love a good Stucky + Nightmares fic. <3
> 
> Warnings: There is a blood mention, and there is a panic attack sort of explored in here. Definitely nothing that was enough to put in the archive warnings, but I wanted to make sure everyone was aware before reading. 
> 
> Much love, and thanks for reading. :)
> 
> \--Jordan

There’s blood, so much blood. And God the smell of it, it’s like you wouldn’t believe: sharp, like metal. It flows from a wound– his wound– her wound. Bucky can’t pinpoint exactly who and what, but he knows the blood on his hands isn’t his. It’s from the daughter of an ambassador that got in his way, it belongs to an engineer who was deemed a threat, it’s spilling from the headshot of a president, it’s flowing from the shoulder of the redheaded woman who speaks to him in Russian, that he thinks he once knew. And suddenly it’s from _him_. Steve.  _Steve_. He’s blonde, and beautiful, and familiar- his eyes– Bucky’s seen them, he _knows_ them, but he feels his metal arm realign, and suddenly he’s on top of him– _Steve_ – and bringing his hand down onto his beautiful face for the final blow– he knows this one will kill. He shouts, he screams, he begs, but they make him, they _make_ him bring his fist down and then it’s done, and he– _Steve_ – is gone and he is left gripping the body but they drag him away they take the body they take the memory they take– **  
**

Bucky wakes with a start, and his panicked shout bounces off the walls of his room. It’s the middle of the night and he is alone.

He’s shaking, the way he shakes after they shock him, after they beat him, after they freeze him to his bones. He never shakes when a gun is in his hands. He never shakes when he makes the kill. Only after, when that part of him they cannot erase asks _why_. They punished him for that. Every single time.

He sits up in bed, and drops his head in his hand, shaking and heaving. He thinks for a moment that he’ll throw up. But he’s gotten nightmares like this since the day he pulled Steve out of the water, and he remembers what the therapists T’challa appointed showed him, so he starts to count his breaths.

It works to a degree. Enough to get the shaking to stop.

He squeezes his eyes shut and he is not met with blackness, but red. Blood red, and knives slicing– and it’s too much again.

He stumbles out of bed, and crosses his long, empty room, out the door, and into the hallway. All he has to do is walk a few paces to the right and he is at Steve’s door. Steve had insisted on Bucky taking the room right next to his, and in this moment Bucky is especially glad for that.

Bucky reaches his hand toward the door, but a thought suddenly holds him back. He stands at the door for several moments, his hand hovering over the gilded knob as he realizes that he has no idea what time it is– only that it is very, very late. He feels panic and bile climb up his throat again. He doesn’t want to bother Steve, and what if he's angry- he doesn’t want to be _punished–_ but that’s not right. That is not how Steve- his Steve- is. That is not how he ever was. It is so easy to forget that that is not how life is any more when so much time has been stolen and melted together and bent and broken. 

He takes a deep breath, pushing the thoughts from his head, and turns the knob. “Steve?” He whispers, hovering in the doorway. “Steve.”

Steve is sprawled out on his bed in the middle of the room on his stomach, his right arm dangling off the edge. He is shirtless, and the dim light from the moon paints his skin silver, and Bucky stops breathing for a moment at the sight of him.

“Steve!” Bucky tries, raising his voice slightly, feeling desperate, skin itching. He closes the door behind him and approaches the bed. He wants so desperately to touch him, to run his hand through the blonde strands of Steve’s hair that hang in his face. He holds himself back. “Steve,” He breathes, the name sitting sweetly on his tongue.

Steve jerks awake, his soldier’s instinct taking over, and is on his feet before Bucky can even blink. He hates to admit it, but the sharp movement makes him flinch, and he recoils.

“Bucky?” Steve breathes, his voice gravelly from sleep. His eyes register Bucky’s posture, his arm up, covering his face as if he expects to be struck. Regret fills him fast and hot. “God– Buck, I’m so sorry, I– You startled me is all, Bucky– I’m _so_ sorry. I would never. You know I would never–”

Steve takes a step forward and is suddenly very close, and then his hands are gentle on him and it feels so familiar, so good, and the tension in Bucky’s body bleeds away. He slumps forward into Steve’s arms before he knows what he’s doing. “I know, Steve,” He breathes, and he does.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” Steve asks quietly, his arms supporting Bucky's weight. Bucky grips onto Steve’s back with his right arm and aches for his lost limb, wishing it were there so that he could wrap around Steve more, and tighter, and closer.

Bucky cannot answer, and he feels his body start to shake again, and he is so thankful when Steve pulls back, but keeps his hands on him while he guides him a few paces back to the bed. They sit on the edge together, and Steve angles his body towards Bucky’s left side, their knees knocking together.

Steve doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to. He just places a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades, never bothered by touching the place where skin meets metal. Bucky leans in to the touch and considers what he wants to say.

“I was dreaming. I was killing you. I dream about that a lot. I came so close Steve, I was so close to killing you when– on the helicarrier. One more hit and I would've cracked your skull and you would've been- just-,” Bucky says, his voice low. He can't find it in him to finish his sentence. Shame and guilt fill him up inside and it _hurts_ him to speak these words, but Steve is listening, and Steve will understand, and Steve does not punish him for words like these. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, so quiet that Bucky isn’t totally sure he’s spoken. Bucky grips the bed with his right hand to steady himself as he looks to his left, into Steve’s unwavering gaze.

“I was telling the truth, you know– to Tony. I remember all of them. Not the specifics. Not the names, or what year it was, or why. But I remember their faces. I remember how I did it. I remember the blood, and their last words, how they begged me to stop. And sometimes, afterwards, I would be confused, and ask questions, and they would punish me. Beat me, wipe me clean, freeze me, and then I would wake up and start it all over.” Bucky sets his jaw, tears his eyes from Steve and focuses hard on a spot on the wall across the room.

“I never forgot you, you know. I couldn’t remember your face, or your name. I forgot how you sound, how you smell. But I never forgot you completely. There was always something on the tip of my tongue. Something just out of my eyeline. And then when– when you said my name I knew– it was _you_. I knew you were what I had been trying to find for so long. _Seventy years_. And then I remembered. _Everything_. It came flooding back to me all at once, and a lot of things are still fuzzy, and– there are some gaps- well, a lot, actually, but I remembered, Steve. And as I pulled you out of that water I knew I had to run. I knew who I was. Dangerous. Still am. You should’ve never brought me back out of cryo.” He finishes. Huffing a heavy breath he realizes that that was the most he’s spoken in the week since they brought him out.

“Bucky. You’re not–” Steve steels himself for a moment, frustration slipping into his voice. “Alright, sure. You’re dangerous.You’ve got HYDRA in your brain and you could snap at any moment. But you _remember_. You said it yourself Bucky. You know I’ll do anything it takes to flush the rest of what they got in your head out. But you can’t give up on me, Bucky. You can’t run away. And I need you to understand,” Steve says, desperate. His hands have shifted, one gripping onto Bucky’s knee, the other firm on his back. “It wasn’t your fault. No matter what you did– what they made you do. If you come to terms with any of it, you have to know, _it wasn’t your fault_. And you’re here now, you’re safe, that’s all that matters to me.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he just leans into Steve’s shoulder, hoping Steve will understand that he’s heard him. He knows he didn’t have a choice in what they made him do. But he still regrets it, all the same.

“I still have nightmares, y’know. I’ve killed people too, Bucky. I see their faces in the night. I see yours. I don’t think there will be a day that goes by that I don’t regret not jumping after you when you fell from that train,” Steve sighs.

Bucky lifts his head at that, looking at Steve again. He thinks of that day too, wishing for a different outcome, but he’ll never admit it. Steve has enough to carry. They both do. “You can’t change the past, Rogers.” Bucky says, almost teasing. Steve smiles at him, but Bucky can tell it’s reserved. “I’m here now, though, like you said, right Stevie?”

Steve exhales a laugh at the old nickname. He hasn’t heard it in years. 

“C’mere.” He says after considering Bucky for a moment. Steve scoots his body back to the far side of the bed, pulling the covers back for Bucky, who climbs in without hesitation, balancing himself with one arm.

They wrap around each other, like they did when they were kids. They melt together like they did in their Brooklyn apartment, using the cold as an excuse. They lay close like they did in the war, sharing a bedroll. They share space like they were born for each other. 

Their bodies were made to be this close.

They drift off to sleep together, and for the first time in a long time, the nightmares don’t come.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment and let me know how you liked this little ficlet!! <3


End file.
